The Parents
by sillythings
Summary: A sequel to The Newlyweds. Molly and Sherlock see but fail to observe.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes had gotten himself stabbed—right in the side, dangerously close to his lung. It seemed that Sherlock's jujitsu was no match for a cornered criminal with a knife. Sherlock was never in danger of dying, but it was bad enough that he was in the hospital for nearly a week and spent another few weeks convalescing at home, driving his wife and Mrs. Hudson and any other visitor foolish enough to venture in to see him mad with his demands and his boredom. 

Molly, upon hearing that Sherlock was hurt, had stayed very calm. While at the hospital, she maintained an air of professional detachment, examining the wound when they finally let her in to see him. Her only concession to her worry was a slight tremble of her hands as she smoothed back Sherlock's hair and kissed his forehead. Molly thanked John and the doctors who were attending and then took a cab home and made it all the way to the bedroom before she broke down into hysterical tears. 

When Mycroft stopped by not long after she had left the hospital, he found her sitting in Sherlock's chair, his bloodstained coat in her lap. Molly Hooper was not easily shaken—she had helped Sherlock fake a suicide and kept his secret for nearly two years. In her line of work, she was exposed to the horrors of death, violence and disease and took them in stride. But seeing the man she loved, the man who had jumped from the roof of a building and survived, injured by a common thug had frightened her. She knew his emotional vulnerabilities, and though Molly knew it better than anyone, Sherlock really _was_ just a man, a man who could bleed, who could die—for real this time. Faced with the thought of her husband's mortality, she sat pensive in the dim light of evening. 

Mycroft seated himself opposite, in John's old chair. He watched her for a moment, her hands smoothing the coat on her lap, almost as if they were stroking the man to whom it belonged. 

"If it helps," he broke the silence. She looked up, startled out of her thoughts.

"If it helps, " Mycroft continued,"I know an excellent dry cleaner. Sherlock has used him before. Always gets out every last drop of blood."

Molly gaped at Mycroft's insensitivity before realizing was teasing her, reassuring her.

"Oh?" she remarked.

"Yes. This used to happen quite a lot, this kind of thing. I'm thinking he didn't mention his near asphyxiations, concussions, numerous stitches—I'm sure you've seen the scars?" Mycroft gave her a pointed look.

Molly blushed and nodded. Yes, she had seen those scars. Sherlock was tough, and he knew how to handle himself. She should not worry, but how could she help it. Molly knew the man with the impassive face across from her worried every bit as much as she did.

"This kind of thing has not happened in a while, Molly, due in great part to your presence in his life. I think my brother may actually be able to think about someone other than himself—" he paused to amend his statement. After all, Sherlock had faked his death for his friends, "Well, he is doing it more consistently—for you." He gave her what might be considered a smile. "I have high hopes that my little brother may be growing up. Finally. Let's just hope he does not get himself killed in the process."

She gave a small smile and they sat in silence for a long time, taking comfort in each other's presence, bound by their shared love for Sherlock.

* * *

It took every bit of her love for Sherlock to get her through the next few weeks. The man was insufferable, and in his misery at being confined to home, he made everyone else as miserable as possible. First of all, he was a fretful baby. He did not want to take his medicine because it made him sleepy—dulled the edges of his  
razor sharp mind.

"My intellect cannot afford to suffer, Molly," he had moaned. _You didn't think of that when you were shooting up though did it?_—she bit her tongue before the words were out of mouth. He caught the gist of her thoughts though.

"It was a special solution," he muttered. "I wasn't an _addict_." He went to flop dramatically on the sofa, but his wound made him wince and he sat down gingerly instead.

"Hmm," was Molly's only response but she had her suspicions as to why he would not take his medication. She respected the fact that he did not want to risk a relapse into his former habits. On the other hand, when Sherlock was in pain, so was the rest of the world.

So, he was cranky. His stitches itched. He was not hungry, well, maybe he was if Mrs. Hudson would make soup, no, not that kind of soup. He wanted his laptop. It was too warm sitting on his belly. No, he did not want to sit up at his desk. He had a headache. He wanted his gun—not that he was going to shoot anything. He wasn't! Could he have a cigarette? Please? Now! He was bored. Bored. BORED. BOOOORRRRREEEDDD!

Molly was thankful for the peace and quiet she found at work. The dead were so much nicer to work with than the living at times.

Sherlock's friends were not spared his fits of temper either. During his daily visits to the flat, John had argued violently with Sherlock more than once, and Molly came home from work one day to hear Lestrade turning the air blue with the foulest curse words she had ever heard, being directed at Sherock who merely tossed his head and pointed to the door.

"God, Molly—I'm sorry you have to put up with that dickhead!" shouted Lestrade on his way out.

Even Mrs. Hudson, dear Mrs. Hudson—the only person who gave Sherlock almost as much leeway as Molly herself, got fed up with him after a particularly cruel deduction about her television viewing habits and called him a "little bugger." Molly had gasped with laughter at the time. Sherlock was not amused.

These were just things that were said in the heat of the moment, however, and it was not long at all before Sherlock was a well as he ever was, and he and John were back to business-Sherlock sporting a rather "sexy" new scar—at least in Molly's opinion.

But things were not quite back to business as usual for all. Molly had borne the brunt of the work and the abuse as Sherlock recovered, and though he was now as fit as ever, Molly was run down, tired and sick. She yawned her way through her scheduled autopsies, nodded over her paperwork, and Stamford once found her with her head buried in her arms, napping lightly in the cool dimness of the lab. Molly was strong though. She was a driven woman, and a professional like her did not have time to be sick.

Molly was busy, too busy to notice that something was not quite right. She was married to one of the most demanding men on the planet. She had just spent weeks worrying and overworking herself. Despite her best efforts, she had gotten behind at work. Research had been ignored. Paper work had not been filed. She was working double shifts to catch up.

On the more personal front, pills had been forgotten even as celebratory recovery sex had been enjoyed. Cycles had been ignored, and if she noticed that she was late—she didn't—she would have attributed it to the stress of having one's husband stabbed. Molly had always been responsible-had never even had a scare in any of her previous relationships. The symptoms just didn't register. It was hard to even consider a baby when she was married to one of the biggest babies she had ever known.

Sherlock, for his part, was the most observant man alive, but if the facts did not immediately present themselves as useful, he deleted them or filed them deep in his mind for retrieval at a later date. Did Sherlock know the signs of pregnancy? At some point, he probably did, but given that he had been married to his work for years and as such had no reason at all to worry about impregnating a woman, he had no idea what to look for other than the obvious, a big belly and if pressed, he probably could have recalled something about vomiting. Molly was still slim and if she were throwing up (she wasn't), she was not doing it around him. The idea of pregnancy simply was not on his radar.

So, though one would think Sherlock and Molly would be the first to know that they were going to be parents, it was, in fact, their friends who slowly began to suspect it before the parents themselves even began to wonder.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, living just down stairs, was the first to suspect. Mrs. Hudson was a light sleeper. Unless she took one of her herbal soothers, her hip pain was nagging and often kept her awake. She became aware that someone in 221B was using the loo at all hours of the night. The pipes were old. When it was late at night and quiet, the gurgle of the pipes was distinctive. Mrs. Hudson counted six trips one night.

Mrs. Hudson arrived at 221B the next morning to find Molly, looking pale, munching toast in the kitchen. Sherlock was gone—off with John bright and early. Molly informed Mrs. Hudson that she thought Sherlock had said something to her before he left about a smuggling ring. She wasn't sure—she had been half asleep. She would text him later. Or see him later. Sherlock had been trying to be more considerate. He would be in touch one way or another.

"It's so good to see him back to his old self," Mrs. Hudson remarked, "Would you like some jam with that?" She found a jar of strawberry jam in the cupboard and handed it to Molly, who shook her head with a wrinkled nose.

"No, thanks." Molly waved it away and took a sip of her tea.

"Butter?" asked Hudson, heading toward the fridge.

"Urgh," groaned Molly. "Dry is fine, thanks." Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and studied Molly's pallid face. She sat down across from Molly and patted her hand.

"I did want to ask you, how is Sherlock reacting to his medication? Any side effects?" she asked Molly, who looked at her strangely. She put down her tea and shook her head.

"No, none really. He's not even taking anything at the moment." Molly answered.

"Ah, so uh, no diuretics or anything?" Mrs. Hudson attempted to be delicate.

"No. Well, they gave him some to reduce edema when they had to intubate him, but nothing regular." Molly wrinkled her brow, "Why do you ask?"

"Ah, well, it's really none of my business, I've just heard someone in the loo…a lot." She waved her hand nervously, "I probably shouldn't have mentioned it. I was just worried about him."

Molly nodded, "Of course you are! No, that's just me, I'm afraid. Bladder the size of a walnut lately. I'm turning over a new leaf—healthier eating, drinking more water. Should probably cut back before bedtime. If Sherlock's going to risk himself, one of us needs to stay healthy."

Mrs. Hudson nodded in sympathy. "I'm sorry if I woke you up," Molly started to apologize, but Mrs. Hudson cut her off.

"No, no dear! Those old pipes you know. They rattle all night long anyway. And this hip of mine just gives me fits—that's what is keeping me up. Never you." Mrs. Hudson looked at Molly curiously.

"A sick Sherlock really takes its toll, doesn't it?" She smiled, reaching out to pat Molly's hand again. "Have you been to the doctor yourself? Maybe it's time you got a check up?" The older woman gave her a rather piercing glance.

Molly laughed, "Oh, no. I just had my yearly physical a couple of months ago. Fit as always! I'm never sick," she tossed the rest of her toast on her plate, "just tired." She stood up to take her dish to the sink before she began to gather up her bag, her keys.

"Well, I should be off. The dead won't wait —well, they will wait, but they shouldn't have to—I just mean, I'm already late. " She was blathering. She was so tired she could not think straight. "Slept past my alarm again."

"Oh, yes, don't let me keep you," Mrs. Hudson stood to go, but she paused and reached out to squeeze Molly's shoulder, "You will tell me if you need anything? I'd be happy to do some cooking for you today, or does anything need to go into the wash?" She stared into Molly's face, smiling hopefully. "If there's anything at all that you want to tell me—to do, I mean—"

Molly hesitated, "but you've done so much already. I don't want to be a both-"

"Shush! No bother at all." Mrs. Hudson smiled and gave her a little hug, "You know I like to do it."

Molly nodded, pleased but a little curious as to this early morning affection, not that Mrs. Hudson was anything but kind, but this seemed a bit…more so. Mrs. Hudson shooed her out of the kitchen.

"Now, you go off to work. I'll have dinner waiting when you get home." A sudden thought seemed to cross Mrs. Hudson's mind. "And one more thing before you go, young lady, I will be putting my foot down about the experiments in the kitchen. I'll not have anymore of that now, especially now. Sherlock and you have that whole lab at the hospital. No more feet in the fridge or bacteria in the bathtub, do you hear? Honestly, two grown people making a hazard of their home. It's time you two started thinking about the consequences of such things." She wagged a finger at Molly.

Molly stood by the front door, taken aback by the sudden change in the older woman's demeanor.

"O-okay," she stammered quietly, "well, okay, then. I'm off." She gave a half wave.

"Have a lovely day dear! I'll have your supper ready by seven, and maybe I can do a little dusting." Mrs. Hudson started on the dishes Molly had left in the sink.

Molly shook her head before grabbing her coat and heading out the door, leaving Mrs. Hudson washing saucers and happily dreaming of dimpled knees and dark curls.

* * *

Lestrade was the next to suspect. He was a father twice over. He'd been through his wife's pregnancies and was aware of the more subtle symptoms, and when he saw Molly in the morgue a couple of days later, it did not take much for him to begin to suspect. She was sitting on a stool, staring heavy-eyed at something in a specimen tray when he came in, Anderson in tow. She stood up quickly when she saw them—had been expecting them in fact, but she quickly grasped the edge of the metal table and closed her eyes in a near swoon. Lestrade was at her elbow in an instant helping her sit back down.

"You okay there, Molly?" he asked. She put a hand to her forehead.

"Just a little lightheaded." She replied faintly before giving a small smile, "Must be time for lunch."

Lestrade gave her the once over. Sherlock had run her ragged over the last month or so, but while Molly was a little wan, she did not look bad. The pink was already returning to her cheeks. Molly waved off his concern and stood again to get the necessary chart. Lestrade's sharp eyes noticed the buttons of Molly's shirt were strained, one had even come undone. Lestrade was a detective, a very good one in fact. He was also a father. There was some very strong evidence here that the consulting detective was about to be a father as well.

"How are you feeling, Molly?" he asked solicitously, teeth flashing in a grin. "Sherlock mentioned you weren't feeling so well—said not to be surprised if you weren't in the morgue." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Much better! I had a rough couple of weeks there, but I'm tip top again. I don't know what that little dizzy spell was." She smiled and walked over to the row of drawers. "Which one did you need again? Evans, G.?" Anderson gave the affirmative and she opened the drawer and pulled out the slab.

"Here, here now!" Lestrade hurried over, "Let me do that! No need to strain yourself. Anderson, give us a hand." He and the forensics specialist finished pulling out the slab. Molly threw him a perplexed look before shrugging and reaching for her gloves.

Lestrade stood by, overseeing Anderson's inspection and smiling inwardly at that thought of Sherlock Holmes changing diapers.

* * *

About a week later, John and Sherlock were holed up in 221B, going over the evidence for their latest case. Photographs and maps were strewn about. Train tickets and schedules were pinned to the wall. Sherlock was pacing and talking at John while Molly sat nearby on the sofa attempting to read through a scientific article. She kept yawning though, and her blinks were longer than strictly necessary.

"So, Mr. Gardner disappeared on the 14th of April and it is now the 29th of June. Knowing that Mrs. Gardner was out of the country for the first two weeks of that time period, that gives him ample time to ha—"

"Wait—what is the date?" Molly asked suddenly, interrupting Sherlock.

Sherlock and John turned to her in surprise. She had been very quiet. They had assumed she had fallen asleep . She was not. She was wide awake now and blinking at them with wide brown eyes. She seemed surprised by something.

"Today is June 29th." Sherlock said simply. He'd been about to say something sarcastic, but his irritation at being interrupted died out when he saw the look on her face. "Why?" Here was a new mystery, closer to home.

John smirked to himself. He was a doctor. He had seen the signs once the others mentioned their suspicions. Frankly, they had all assumed that Sherlock and Molly were hiding it from them, the way they did the start of their relationship, the way they did their marriage, the way they kept everything about their relationship private—it was a logical assumption. However, seeing the look of shock on Molly's face, John realized it was also the wrong assumption.

Molly didn't answer, but she suddenly dashed to the loo. They heard cabinets opening, closing. A few minutes later, she emerged. Without a word, Molly walked to the front door, grabbed her bag. With one last wide eyed glance at Sherlock, she picked up her keys.

"I-I'll be back in just a minute. I just need to go pick up a few things. Do you need anything? Matches? Milk? The tabloids?" she shuffled nervously as Sherlock and John stared at her. Sherlock shook his head. John looked down, his hand coming up to hide his grin.

She nodded and hurried out. Sherlock turned to John and took in his smile.

"What? What is it?" he demanded. How dare John act like he knew something about his wife that he didn't.

"Molly was ill for a few weeks there, wasn't she?" asked John meaningfully. Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"Ye-es." He admitted and lifted his chin. He felt like he should know where this conversation was going. He did not.

"She's put on some weight, yeah? Stomach upset?" John's eyebrows arched significantly.

"Molly has gained 3 and a half pounds. And I've told her repeatedly that eating lunch in the cantina is no longer advisable since they hired Mr. Dunstan as manager," Sherlock answered distractedly, he was sinking into his mind palace, sorting through things he had noticed but not reflected upon. John watched as Sherlock became lost in thought, his eyes staring but not seeing. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes snapped back to focus on John. His face was curiously blank. Then he walked carefully over to his chair, and dropped heavily into the seat. He folded his hands under his chin. The pin had dropped.

"Oh." Sherlock said.

"Yeah." John answered. "Would you like to talk abou-, or no? No. Okay. Perhaps I should go before Molly gets back?"

Sherlock nodded without looking at him.

Smothering another grin, John departed, leaving a rather anxious father to be behind.

* * *

Molly was staring at two pink lines. Never had the color pink seemed so threatening before. Sherlock had been lost in thought when she returned from the shops, and he had not said a word as she made her way directly to the bathroom, bag in hand.

The instructions on the box recommended waiting until morning, but she could not wait. She stared at the white stick for 3 minutes. She knew she was pregnant before the 3 minutes were up. She knew she was pregnant before she even made it home from the store. Now that the dates were adding up, she realized that her fatigue and general malaise was not a result of being Sherlock Holmes's personal nurse, or rather, not just because of that. She stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't really look any different, but now she was two—there was someone else in there, a baby Holmes. She turned to observe her profile, running her hand over her flat belly before coming up to cup a heavy breast. She pulled her shirt up to get a better look. These should have been a dead giveaway, she thought to herself weighing them both in her hands. At just that moment, the door to the bathroom was unceremoniously thrust open and Sherlock stood there staring down at her, his lip curled in confusion.

"Hey!" she hollered, "Occupied!"

"What are you doing?" he asked as she pulled her shirt down, flushing with embarrassment.

"What do you think I'm doing," she muttered reaching out to cover the telltale white stick with her hand. Sherlock snatched it off the counter. She looked up at him with apprehension. Molly had no idea how he would react to this. Sherlock was a 36 year old toddler. She wondered how he would handle the competition. They had not ruled out having children. They had just never discussed it either.

"How do you read this?" he asked irritably. Sherlock shook the stick and held it up to the light. She reached out to snatch it back.

"You aren't supposed to shake it," she snapped at him. "Give it. Two lines. See?"

Sherlock nodded and looked at her, eyes asking the question his mouth couldn't seem to form.

"It's—," he began to ask, before stopping to clear his throat.

"Positive." She squeaked. He had not heard Molly's mouse voice in a very long time. It was almost a relief to hear it, added a touch a familiarity that he clung to in this unreal situation.

Sherlock blinked and took the stick from her again to look for himself before he tossed it on the counter. He reached out to cup a breast. It felt like an exam, not an intimate caress. He lifted her shirt to lay a palm against her flat abdomen.

"You've been sick?" he questioned her, prodding her belly with gentle fingers.

"Not really. Just tired. I guess." She brushed his hand away, "Don't. That tickles."

"And your…" he paused delicately.

"Late. At least 3 weeks past." She answered.

They stared at each other. His blue eyes were bright as he pressed his lips together. Those lips. They had been her undoing, Molly thought to herself.

"Well." Sherlock rasped. He cleared his throat again.

"Yes, ah, well." Molly responded. They stared at each other some more.

"You'll give birth in February, I suppose." Sherlock said, his eyes losing focus.

"Ye—what? I mean, I guess. Yeah." He'd figured that out fast.

"It would have happened just after I recovered, so conception was early May. February, maybe end of January." He took the test up again and gazed at the two pink lines.

"And how do you feel about that?" Molly asked, her voice soft. "Are you okay with that?"

He looked at her, raising a brow at her question.

"It doesn't matter to me when it's born," he replied and placed the test on the counter. "Though research has shown that children born in winter tend to develop allergies more frequently than children born at any other time of year."

Molly blinked at him slowly. "How do you even kno-? That study can't be well respected, but I mean—You don't have allergies." She felt a little dizzy. From the pregnancy or just talking to Sherlock she was not sure. "No, I mean, how do you feel about…ah, having a baby? Is it okay?"

Sherlock hesitated before replying, "What's done is done, Molly."

They looked at each other shyly.

"Do you mind it?" Sherlock asked. "It will mean an—adjustment. Career. Home. Though John's old room would make a fine nursery, I suppose. He will get a lot of afternoon sunlight—will that affect naptime, I wonder?"

For the first time, Molly started to smile. He was already planning, making room in the flat, hopefully in his heart. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. His arms came up to hold her gently.

"That's why Mrs. Hudson yelled at me about the specimen baggies in the freezer." Molly pondered aloud. "She already knew."

"They all know." Sherlock answered, reflecting on the hidden grins and sideways looks John and Lestrade had been giving him for the last week. "I can't imagine how I missed it."

"I'm the one who is pregnant and I didn't even consider it." She sighed. "This is embarrassing."

A dark expression creased Sherlock's brow. Molly felt her stomach tighten—were the second thoughts coming already?

"What is it," she almost whispered.

Sherlock sneered and rolled his eyes upward, "Mycroft is going to be absolutely unbearable," he groaned. Molly gasped with relieved laughter.

"Well, if that's your biggest worry, I think we're going to be okay." She tilted her chin up to smile at him.

He looked down at his grinning wife in puzzlement.

"Well, of course_ we_ are. Why would you ever doubt that?" he answered.

"I don't." Molly said and held her face up for a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and Molly Holmes were expecting a baby. Molly, though she never considered herself particularly maternal, had begun discussing baby names and considering paint colors for the nursery. She briefly considered taking up knitting, but Mrs. Hudson assured her that Molly did not need to bother herself on that front. 

Sherlock, for his part, behaved pretty much as he always did. If he were excited about having a baby, only Molly knew. As with his courtship and his marriage, impending fatherhood was something he did not care to discuss with just anyone. 

Sherlock was rather prim and proper about many things. He and Molly were very private people when it came to their marriage and any intimacies associated with it. This was partly an act of self-preservation. Mycroft's cameras were everywhere. Sherlock was something of a minor celebrity—the published account of his life story by Kitty Reilly followed by his "suicide" ensured this. Discretion was necessary lest they give Mycroft an unintentional eyeful (it had nearly happened before) or end up in a blurry photo on the cover of a trashy tabloid (that had also happened before—they were caught in a rather chaste kiss outside of St. Bart's), but the fact remained that there were people observing them, and frankly, it was none of their business what Sherlock and Molly got up to. 

In a way, not talking about Molly's pregnancy was an extension of this. Molly's belly was a confirmation that they did in fact have an intimate relationship. Sherlock was shy. Congratulations on impending fatherhood embarrassed him. It could have also been that he was simply terrified, and discussing the baby meant he ran the risk of revealing that fear. Moriarty had threatened his friends before. Now, he had something even more precious to protect, and while Moriarty was dead, who knew what madness still lurked, watching him and his family? Well, besides Mycroft, of course. 

To an outside observer, Sherlock may have appeared cold and disinterested in the coming child, but Molly knew differently. He did not outwardly say much about the baby, but the frenetic energy he threw into solving as many cases as he could before the February due date, researching security systems with Mycroft, making more of an effort to pick up after himself, all indicated that he was thinking and planning. Sometimes she would find him lost in thought, staring into nothingness, plucking his violin—a strange new expression on his face, soft and tender, not unlike the looks he reserved for her in their most private moments. At those moments she knew without a doubt he was thinking about the baby, making room in his head and in his life for this new person. 

Molly had been frightened the first time they saw an ultrasound of the baby, waving little arms and legs peacefully on screen, its little heart a rapid flicker. Molly felt any uncertainty about her pregnancy vanish as a grin stretched her mouth wide. She laughed, a delighted little chuckle at the sight of that little flicker of life. She turned her head to look at Sherlock who was focused intently on the screen. He held himself erect, very still, not touching anything, not even her. His face was a blank mask, though his eyes were very bright. Molly's grin faded as she watched her husband. What was he feeling? There was no indicator that he was feeling anything at all. 

"What do you think?" she asked him softly, reaching out to touch his sleeve. The doctor continued to move the probe around her gel covered belly, taking measurements. Sherlock flicked his eyes down to her and back to the screen again. 

"Is it developing normally?" he asked the doctor, so clinical and cold. Molly could tell the older woman was taken aback by the tone, but she kept her response cheerful—for the mother's sake, Molly could tell. 

"Absolutely perfect! Exactly the right size for 14 weeks. Too early to know the gender for certain, of course, but look at that heartbeat! Would you like to hear it?" 

Sherlock nodded shortly, before he glanced at his watch. 

Molly, who had drawn in a delighted breath at the thought of hearing her baby, felt a surge of anger. 

"Don't let us keep you if you have somewhere to be," she said quietly but her hurt was all too clear. 

Sherlock looked down at her in surprise. 

"Of course not. Lestrade has a case for me, but he won't be available until 2. I have plenty of time. I did want to get some time in at the lab before, however." She stared at him doubtfully, but he was watching the doctor wipe off Molly's belly and take out the fetal Doppler. The rushing sound of the baby's heartbeat filled the room. 

"Oh!" gasped Molly. The doctor smiled and looked sharply at Sherlock. 

"And what do you think, Papa?" she asked. 

Molly saw Sherlock's throat work as he swallowed. His face was still expressionless, but his eyes—his eyes were wild. He was in the grip of something profound and trying hard not to show it. He looked at his watch again before nodding to himself and glancing toward Molly. 

"It sounds very strong." Sherlock commented shortly. Molly tried to catch his gaze, but he stared at the swell of her belly as the doctor manipulated the machine. 

"Oh, yes! A fine heartbeat." The doctor confirmed. Despite Sherlock's behavior, Molly could not suppress her grin. That was their baby inside of her, a reality. It seemed that the reality was hitting Sherlock as well. In that long neck, his pulse was jumping. He did not say another word. 

The doctor wrapped up the examination and with an odd backward glance at Sherlock, bustled out of the room telling Molly she would see her next month. Sherlock stood stiffly in the corner as Molly buttoned up her trousers and pulled her shirt down. She sat on the edge of the examining table and stared up at this unfathomable man before her. 

They considered each other in silence for a long beat. He reached into his pocket to glance at his phone, fiddling with the buttons. 

"Are you okay?" she asked gently. He looked up at her. 

"I think I'm supposed to ask you that," he remarked drily, "even I know that much." 

Molly's lips turned up in a small smile. "What did you think?" she pointed to her belly where a tiny fetus was currently rolling and waving. She could not feel it, not yet, but she'd seen it. There was a person inside of her. He had seen it too. 

"I think—," he fidgeted with his phone before shifting his gaze to her belly, "it's—good. Healthy." He gave her the polite smile he only took out when he was trying to pass as a "normal" member of society. 

Molly looked down and pressed her lips together, "Okay," she mumbled. 

"If we leave immediately, we'll have time to run some tests in the lab before I head over to the Yard," Sherlock remarked extending his hand to help her off of the table. 

"Sure," she answered quietly. He held on to her hand firmly and walked with her out of the doctor's office hand in hand. He did not let go until they hailed the cab and got inside. Once seated, he looked out the window, but he reached out and held her hand in a tight grip. He did not speak. She looked at their entwined hands and then his profile. There was so much she wanted to say to him, to ask. She held her tongue. 

Once at St. Bart's, he let go of her hand but he followed her closely, hand on her back, until they were in the lab. Conversation centered around the experiments at hand until his phone chimed. With a glance at the number, he pulled on his jacket and headed out the door. 

Molly locked her herself in her office and rested her forehead on her desk. She was not crying, but she felt a cold tingle in her stomach that had absolutely nothing to do with the fluttering little creature she had seen today. Or rather, it had everything to do with it and its father. He had been moved—that much was clear. But was it joy or fear or some combination of both? Not for the first time, she wondered what she had gotten herself into. 

She sat up straight and took a deep breath. Molly knew her husband. She believed in him. He was just having a hard time dealing with his emotions, but she was not going to make it any more difficult for him to come to terms with this situation. As for her, she had some bragging to do. She was going to go to the break room and show off her baby. She reached for her bag to take out the pictures of the sonogram. The doctor had printed off four of them. She could only find three. 

After a thorough search of her admittedly large and overstuffed bag and after tipping the brown envelope containing the images upside down, Molly suddenly stopped and brought a hand to her mouth. Oh! She felt a prickly sensation in her eyes and nose— Perhaps she was not the only one who was going to show off pictures of junior at work today. 

* * *

Later that evening, Molly was home and showered long before Sherlock made an appearance. She was in bed reading a pamphlet on pregnancy she had picked up at the doctor's office, when Sherlock threw open the door and flopped on the bed next to her, fully dressed. 

"Good evening," she said and he turned from where he was face down in the pillow, one blue eye boring into hers. "Must have been a good one to keep you away so late," she commented setting her reading material aside. Sherlock nodded, his face in the pillow. 

"Lestrade says it's a boy," he mumbled into the pillow. Molly froze. What? 

"What?" she said aloud. 

Sherlock's face was hidden, but there was a smile in his voice, "I said, Lestrade thinks it's a boy—he said he could see his—"whatnot" in the picture." 

"Penis?" 

"I know what it's called Molly. I was quoting the good detective inspector. " He turned to look at her, face controlled but the smile was lurking in his eyes now. "The heartbeat was rapid. That is often a sign that the fetus is a male." 

"You showed Lestrade the picture?" she confirmed. He looked shy but he lifted the corner of his mouth in a sheepish smile. 

"And John. I don't know why…" he trailed off. 

"Fatherly pride?" she teased him. 

"Maybe?" He seemed surprised. 

In spite of her earlier doubts, Molly wasn't surprised at all.


	3. Chapter 3

_**For iamazonian. Feel better soon!**_

The odor of bleach and lemon scented cleanser wafted out of 221B, down the stairs, assaulting the noses of any visitors who came to visit 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was on a cleaning spree. She had been since the turn of the new year. It was now early February, and her task was nearly complete. Red biohazard bags, disturbingly full of who knows what rested just outside the door leading into the flat Sherlock Holmes shared with his wife, Molly. Clients who braved the antiseptic assault on their senses where instructed via a clearly printed note taped to the door or by the stern landlady herself to take their shoes off before entering. She'd just disinfected the whole flat, and she did not intend for it to be mucked up again by a bunch of shady characters seeking the assistance of the one and only consulting detective.

Most people coming up to 221B got the stink eye from Mrs. Hudson these days, even Lestrade and John. Molly Hooper was nine months pregnant, and the good woman had appointed herself as Molly's protector since Sherlock did not seem to understand that a woman so close to giving birth needed peace and quiet. Mrs. Hudson refused to put up with any "shenanigans" and if the cases were serious enough for Sherlock to attend to, "Well, young man, you just take yourself doesn't need half of Scotland Yard in her sitting room!"

"A few germs are okay, you know," Molly tried to convince Mrs. Hudson, "I mean, babies should be exposed to a few germs. It strengthens their immune system." She smiled apologetically at John as he stood in his socks, wondering if he would be allowed to sit down. Molly gestured for him to join her on the sofa, moving a pile of little socks and cloth nappies out of the way.

Molly was appreciative of the attention and the help, though she took a more lenient view in regards to visitors. John had arrived after receiving an urgent text from Sherlock. He had been completely convinced that Molly was in labor until he arrived at the flat and found Mrs. Hudson disinfecting every surface and Molly sorting baby clothes. Sherlock was no where to be found.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, indulging Molly's little speech, "Yes, of course, dear," and then went to scrub the kitchen counter top again, shaking her head.

Molly sighed, rubbed her lower back and shifted uncomfortably. She was a small woman. Her husband was tall. The baby was big. It would not be long now—Molly would be able to call her body her own again. She rubbed her torpedo shaped belly and felt the child stretch and poke a tiny elbow into her bladder.

John saw the wince and grinned, "Next week, right?" he asked as if he and everyone else in their circle of friends didn't have the 12th of February marked off on the calendar.

"That's what they tell me," Molly said, rubbing her tummy, trying to get the baby to move to a more comfortable position. "Though he seems comfortable where he is right now."

"So, uh, where's the father to be? I thought perhaps the little man was on his way given the nature of the text I just received."

Molly flushed slightly, "Oh, he…uh, just had a little errand to run." She shot a guilty glance into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was squirting bleach into the refrigerator—again. She was also perusing the contents, looking for suspicious items.

John followed Molly's glance and frowned in puzzlement.

"Molly, I see you've got another package of those frozen meals—you must stop eating those dear. The sodium is so bad for you and the baby." Mrs. Hudson tsked and tossed the box into the trash, "I can whip you up a lunch if you don't have time—just think of the state of your ankles. Also, did I see a package of cold meats and cheeses? I know in my time, it wasn't such a concern, but have you heard of something called listeria?"

Molly and John exchanged another look. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"Terrible things it does. Have you been eating these?" She peered at Molly sternly.

"No, no…" lied Molly smoothly, "that was for Sherlock. I was trying to get him to have a sandwich the other day."

"Hmph." Mrs. Hudson eyed the young mother sternly. Molly gave her an innocent smile.

They heard footsteps on the stairs, and Sherlock entered the flat, casting a quick, guilty look into the kitchen when he spotted Mrs. Hudson. He tucked something into his coat turned his back to the older woman.

"John, good. I need you to go to Paris for me."

John did a double take. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Paris. Just for a weekend. You can take Mary if you'd like, but I cannot go myself, obviously."

Mrs. Hudson was removing her apron and heading out the door, "Well, obviously, John. Molly could go at any moment." She gave him a look. Mrs. Hudson was not sparing anyone the guilt today. "Molly, do not lift a finger. I'll be up with a nice lunch in about half an hour. "

She smiled at Molly, and gave Sherlock's arm an affectionate squeeze before heading down the stairs to her own flat. Sherlock who had looked momentarily concerned at Mrs. Hudson's contact, relaxed visibly as she closed the door behind her. Opening his coat, he revealed a large bag of Quavers.

Molly clapped her hands. Her husband tossed them to her, and she ripped open the bag. Grabbing a handful, she groaned with pleasure at the first mouthful.

"Mrs. Hudson has banned any food item deemed questionable by her pregnancy manual," sighed Sherlock. "I've been reduced to smuggling crisps. "

"I've never loved you more than I do right now," Molly mumbled around a mouthful of chips.

John's ears perked up at this statement and his eyes immediately went to Sherlock, who didn't even look up as he hung up his coat and moved to his desk. He opened his laptop and began to peruse files. John knew Sherlock and Molly loved each other. It was obvious, and Sherlock's pride in the coming baby was likewise apparent. He had started more than one conversation with the words "My son…" but this open verbal affection from Molly was new. Perhaps the baby was loosening them up. No real point in hiding what they were, what they felt.

"You said that when I brought you the ramen on Tuesday," he said, eyes scanning the screen.

"Mmm. But I really mean it now." Molly sucked the cheesy dust off of her fingers and reached for another handful, "I couldn't take another one of Mrs. Hudson's fortifying dinners. Beef roasts and spinach are well and good, don't get me wrong…"

Sherlock handed John an itinerary for his trip. The plane left in six hours, John noted. So nice of Sherlock to give him advance notice. He looked up to find Sherlock next to Molly, laying a hand on her belly.

"Is it so easy to win your love, Molly Holmes? A bag of crisps is all it takes?" He palmed her belly and watched it ripple as the baby rolled inside her.

"Well, these are romantic. It was what we had on our first date," smiled Molly. She looked at John, "You remember…you were there."

"What?" John was watching Sherlock push up Molly's shirt so he could lay his hand against her belly skin to skin. "Was I?" He was confused.

"Of course," Sherlock answered, "Another stretch mark. That's 5 now. He's going to be huge."

Molly frowned at him and pulled her shirt down. "Don't remind me." She sighed and a worried look crossed her sweet face. "I hope he comes soon. He doesn't need to get much bigger."

Sherlock prodded her belly with a long finger and waited. He was rewarded with a visible kick and he smiled the way he did when he decided a case was worth his time. Sherlock dipped his curly head and laid an ear to Molly's abdomen. He remained there for a long beat and Molly lifted a hand to pet his head gently.

"It won't be long now." Sherlock announced.

"Your vast obstetrics training tells you that," teased Molly, "or did Junior whisper it in your ear?"

The consulting detective looked up at his wife, but did not raise his head. "The science of observation can be applied in all situations, Molly."

She twisted her lips in a wry smile, "Of course."

Under John's amazed eyes, Sherlock dropped a kiss on to Molly's stomach before straightening her shirt and standing up briskly rubbing his hands together. He felt John's gaze suddenly and stiffened. John grinned at him. Even after all this time, being caught in a moment of sweet domesticity unsettled Sherlock.

"Don't you have a plane to catch?" he asked John tartly.


End file.
